


Behind The Wheel

by stjaninaro



Series: Behind The Wheel [1]
Category: Depeche Mode, Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Outrageously self-indulgent...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjaninaro/pseuds/stjaninaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the father of a young F1 fan, Alan finds himself trackside at a race which doesn't quite go the way a certain young German driver would have liked. How will he deal with the fall-out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind The Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ way back in August 2010.
> 
> Ok so this is something that's been running around in my head screaming "WRITE ME! WRITE ME!". As its also one of my favourite personal little fantasies, I agreed with the voice in the my head and here it is. I'm aware that its possibly the single most self-indulgent fic ever written but I don't care. I'm happy with it and I hope you'll all enjoy it too. Or at least take it in good spirit ;)

**West Sussex. July 31 st , 2010**.   
  
Alan looked down at his son, exasperated. The kid had been begging to be brought to a Formula 1 race for months, and now, nearing his birthday, Stan had brought out the big guns. “Pleeeease Daddy! Please! I love it so much, and you’re going to be gone on tour for ages soon. Please take me,” he sobbed.   
  
There were huge crocodile tears swimming in his eyes, some spilling over and down his cheeks. Much as his public persona may refute it, Alan wasn’t made entirely of stone. The sight of his little boy sobbing his heart out was too much. “Ok. I’ll take you to a race.”   
  
The tears stopped immediately. Stan flew at him, wrapping his arms around his neck, and kissing him sloppily on the cheek. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!! You’re the bestest Dad in the whole world!!! Which one can we go to??”   
  
Alan blinked. That was a good question.   
  
Stan rolled his eyes, and skipped off to find his race calendar, which had all the dates and locations of the 19 events around the world. He spread it on the coffee table, and tugged his father over to sit on the couch, while he pointed out the different tracks and their pros and cons. Alan sat listening to him, bewildered that his son was this passionate about something he knew absolutely nothing about. He tuned out while Stan was describing a horrendous-sounding crash that had occurred at the Hungarian grand prix the previous year, the driver seemingly being lucky to have survived.   
  
“… So what do you think, Dad?”   
  
“Hmm, what?”   
  
“Which one do you want to go to?” he repeated, bouncing on his knees with excitement.   
  
Glancing quickly at the dates, Alan worked out which ones were feasible, and not too far to get too. A lot of the remaining races were in the Far East; Japan, South Korea, Singapore, or South America, like Brazil, or there was even one in Abu Dhabi of all places. While they sounded like the more interesting ones to go to, they clashed with his American tour dates. He looked closer at the soon-to-come races. It was a pity they’d missed Silverstone, the British track less than 2 hours from their doorstep.   
  
“What about Belgium? Is that one any good?” he pointed at the map. It was in a month, August 29th, plenty of time to sort out tickets and accommodation. And even better, it fell on the same weekend that Hep was taking Paris on a shopping trip to, where else, but Paris, for her birthday a few days later. While Paris had accepted the divorce, Alan knew it had been hard on her and Stan, and was delighted for them to divide their time equally between them.   
  
“Spa?? Oh my God, that’s like my favourite race! There’s nearly always loads of crashes! They even had a 12 car pile-up at the first hair-pin a few years ago!! We’re seriously going to Spa-Francorchamps??”   
  
Stan squealed with delight, running around the room, stopping briefly to hug Alan again, before rushing away to call his friend Robbie about the good news.   
  
Alan called after him. “Ask him if he’d like to come with us if you like.”   
  
A thrilled scream was his only response, and he smiled bemusedly as he listened to Stan’s excited conversation. “He says he’d love to Dad. His dad wants to talk to you!”   
  
Hauling himself off the couch, Alan took the receiver from Stan’s shaking hands and told Robbie's dad abut their plans, promising to call him closer to the date with more concrete information.   
  
Stan was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Can we go book the tickets now? Do you think there’s a chance we could get into the pitlane or one of the garages as team guests and meet some of the drivers?? Oh my God that would be so so so cool!!”   
  
“I’ll call some people and see what I can do, Stan.” Maybe Daniel would have some contacts in the motorsport world…   
  
***   
  
Stan made him sit down with him to watch the race that afternoon, determined his father wouldn’t embarrass him when they got to Belgium. Stan had warned him the Hungarian grand prix was notoriously difficult to overtake on, so he had expected it to be boring, a procession of cars just going round in a circle, but it hadn’t. It had been fascinating. Inexplicably Alan had found himself disgusted with the result, the best driver clearly the victim of some dreadful luck.   
  
It wasn’t the first time Alan had seen a race of course. Often he’d been sitting in the room while Stan curled up on the floor, engrossed in the action. But he’d never taken an active interest, never spared it a second glance from the Sunday papers he’d invariably be reading instead. This time though, Alan had sat on the rug with his son cuddled up beside him, listening intently when Stan pointed out something important. Like how a tyre barrelling down the pitlane of its accord wasn’t a good thing, (Alan had actually managed to figure that out on his own.), or just how Webber had ended up in front by the chequered flag. (Now that one, he simply couldn‘t get his head around.)   
  
Three weeks later, and thanks to Daniel’s incredibly persuasive assistant, Alan had secured passes to the Red Bull Racing garage. Stan’s favourite team. He’d managed to keep it a secret, not wanting to get the boys’ hopes up before it had been confirmed.   
  
He had decided it would be easier to just drive to Belgium, take the Channel Tunnel and cut across the north-east of France. The track was miles out in the countryside, so having his own car with him would make getting there much simpler. Alan had booked a nice, boutique hotel in the town of Aachen, about 30miles north-east of the track. He was actually looking forward to it.   
  
***   
  
 **Circuit-de-Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium. Saturday, August 28** th 2010.   
  
“You’re Alan Wilder.” A German-accented voice stated from just behind him.   
  
Alan turned to be greeted by dancing blue eyes, floppy blondish hair, and a delighted grin in the form of Sebastian Vettel. Alan recognised him from one of the many posters on Stan’s bedroom walls. Though, the photographic representations did no justice when face to face with the man.  _‘Boy.’_ Alan thought  
  


_‘He’s only a boy.’_ Realising he’d been staring, Alan quickly grasped the outstretched hand, surprised by the strength in the much slimmer, and smaller, man-boy.   
 

“I didn’t know you were a racing fan.” Again the accent distracted Alan. As did the slight tilt of Sebastian’s head.

“My son, Stan. ” Alan pointed to the opposite side of the room, where Stan and Robbie were happily engaged in a conversation with a group of affable mechanics about the new non-refuelling rule. “He’s mad about this stuff. Never misses a race on television.”

“Excellent! Its always fantastic to see younger people having an interest. And perhaps you’ll find you like it too after you watch. You picked a good one to come to. Did you enjoy the qualifying? Not too difficult to understand I hope”

“No, Stan explained it all to me,” Alan laughed. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”

“Haha, the race isn’t over yet. We tend to save our celebrations for Sunday evening. If we do well of course.”

“Yes, I can see why. Especially after what happened at the last race. That was some terrible luck you had.”

Sebastian smiled ruefully, more of a grimace really, “My luck has been like that all year it seems. I’m looking forward to winning again.”

“Have you won here before?” Alan was surprised to find he was genuinely interested.

“Won, no. But I was on the podium last year. Third.”

“Stan mentioned there’s a lot of crashes on this circuit.”

Sebastian laughed and held up his left index finger, a thin white scar running around the tip. “I crashed here a few years ago, before I got into F1. Lost the top of my finger to a piece of flying debris. But I had it reattached and was back racing the next weekend. Crashes are just something that happen occasionally. You just have to get right back in the car as soon as possible”

“Yes, I saw the one a few weeks ago. Your team-mate?”

“Ah. Mark’s taking flight.” The young German frowned slightly, turning to glance at the brash Australian talking to his engineer. “He was lucky.”

Stan bounded to Alan’s side, Robbie not far behind. “Hello Seb!” he said, shyly looking up at his favourite driver.

Sebastian smiled down at the eager faces and signed their outstretched hats. His charm and easygoing manner impressed Alan. There was no strain in that smile, no falsity. Sebastian was genuinely pleased to chat to a couple of 8 year olds about the probability of a wet race, and whether he thought he could win from where he had qualified, second on the grid. Alan was content to listen to them talk, suddenly very happy he was there.

The four of them chatted away for the next half an hour, Alan only contributing occasionally. He didn’t know enough about the topic to participate further. And besides, he was happy to listen to Sebastian speak, his accent getting stronger on certain words, and his tendency to say ‘for sure’ after every question the boys asked.

Their little circle was unfortunately broken up as the Red Bull PR girl assigned to Sebastian, Sarah, tapped him on the shoulder to remind him he had an interview segment to film with the BBC, and then a quick interview with Radio Eins, a German station.

Smiling apologetically, Sebastian made his farewells. “Don’t worry about it Seb. Dad has to get interviewed loads too. He hates it.” Stan said, giving his idol a quick hug. Alan raised an eyebrow at him , and the little boy flushed. Turning to Sebastian, he reached over to shake his hand, again surprised by the firmness. “Good luck for tomorrow, if we don’t see you again. I sincerely hope you win.” Sebastian grinned in response, blushing lightly, and left. Only minutes passed till Alan noticed a tall, strong-jawed man making his way towards him.

“G’day mate. I’m surprised that one wasn’t on his knees kissing your feet.” Noticing Alan’s confusion, Mark nodded after Sebastian. “He’s a massive fan of yours. Went to that special gig you did in February. Thought he’d never shut up about it.”

Alan looked at Sebastian’s retreating form, already preferring, and missing, his company. Stan was obviously of the same opinion, he scrunched up his forehead in a frown and turned away from Mark, dragging Robbie over to the snack table.

“He seems like a lovely chap.” Alan said, turning back to who he presumed must be Sebastian’s team-mate, Mark Webber.

“Aw yeah, mate. He’s super.”

Alan almost snorted at the blatant sarcasm of the statement. Stan had explained the problems the team had been having during the seasons, petty rivalry being the main one, though team management was firmly sticking to their story that everything was fine. Alan had only been in the F1 paddock for a day, and he could already see that that wasn’t the case. There was simmering jealousy in Webber’s eyes, and something else that made Alan feel inexplicably protective towards the sweet, young German native.

“Yes he is. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time we were leaving.”

Turning his back on him sharply, Alan collected the boys and left, driving them back to the hotel for dinner and then bed. It had been a big day for them, and they needed rest for the even bigger one ahead of them.

***

  
**Sunday, August 29** th 2010. 2pm local time. 

_JL: Hello and welcome if you’re just joining us on the BBC for the 66_ th Belgian Grand Prix. We are your commentators Jonathan Legard and Martin Brundle. 

MB: And the cars are making their way back to the grid after the formation lap. Once the five red lights go out, prepare for mayhem at the first corner. 

JL: Lights out! And we are racing again at Spa! 

MB: Good start from Hamilton off pole. He’s already a few car lengths ahead going into the hairpin. Look at Vettel and Webber! Wheel to wheel going round La Source. Where the hell did Webber come from? He was 6th on the grid. Lets have a look at the replay from the start…. Jump-start!! Webber made a jump-start!! He’ll be penalised for th- 

JL: Sorry to interrupt Martin, but Webber has pushed Vettel off the track. Mark Webber has shoved his team-mate onto the kerbs going up Eau Rouge! Oh and Vettels in the wall! Vettel is in the wall coming up to Raidillon!! 

MB: His left-rear, look, his left-rear hit the white lines and spun him. They’re very treacherous in the wet. That’s the third time Webber and Vettel have come together this season. And Vettel’s come off worse again! That’s not going to do their championship hopes any good. There’ll be words in the Red Bull garage this evening. 

_JL: Yes indeed. Look at Vettel, out of the car and he is absolutely furious! He’s thrown the steering wheel clear out of the cockpit. The team won’t like that, those things cost £100,000 each!  
  
_ Alan looked on stunned as Sebastian’s race ended nose first in the tyre wall. He watched, relieved, as Sebastian clambered out of the car, rage radiating from beneath his crash helmet. He stalked across the gravel trap, shaking off the concerned marshals, and easily vaulted the barrier. Alan saw all this on the little screen at the back of the garage, Stan beside him nearly crying with anger for his new friend. There was obviously great consternation within the team too, Alan could see them furiously talking into their radios on the pit wall. He hoped they were giving that Webber guy a good bollocking for his idiocy.   
  
Less than 10 minutes later, Sebastian strode into the garage, having gotten a lift on the back of a marshal’s scooter. His helmet was still on. Not a good sign. As he passed Alan on his way to talk to his team principal, Christian Horner, Alan could hear what he assumed were muffled curses in rapid German. He didn’t speak the language particularly well, but he’d learnt enough from Martin all those years ago. He never would have guessed the affable young man, ‘ _boy!’,_ from yesterday, could have such a colourful vocabulary.   
  
Sebastian took of his helmet and ripped the fireproof balaclava off, throwing it on a table. Alan watched discreetly as Sebastian went to be consoled by his engineer and team boss. He saw him shrug off the sympathetic hand on his shoulder and turned sharply on his heel, crossing the pitlane and disappearing out the back of the garage again, face black with fury.   
  
Alan frowned. Turning to the woman standing next to him, he quietly asked her to keep an eye on the boys, and quickly followed Sebastian.   
He found him down a narrow, empty corridor, fist pulled back to punch the hard, grey concrete. Alan gently caught his fist in his palm before he do could any serious damage to himself.   
  
“You’re hardly going to beat him if you break your hand.”   
  
Sebastian looked up at him, startled, and pulled his hand away. Their eyes met. Alan was surprised to see there was little anger. It was mostly frustration and depthless disappointment clouding his gaze.   
  
“I can’t beat him with two hands anyway.”   
    
“Sebastian…He pushed you into a wall. That’s not beating you fair and square. That’s feeling so threatened by you, he feels the need to risk your life just so he can feel good about himself.”   
  
“Oh what the fuck do you know about it?” Sebastian spat, “You’re not a driver. You’re not a racer. You’re a musician. So just stick to what you know something about! Lassen Sie mich gerade allein”   
  
“Excuse me?   
  
“Just leave me the fuck alone! Are you blind or something? Do I look like I want company? Gehen Sie!”   
  
Alan blinked, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. This wasn’t the same Sebastian he’d met the day before. This was Sebastian the racer. This was a  _frustrated_  Sebastian the racer. In all fairness, his attitude was to be expected, but Alan wasn’t used to being spoken to like that. Maybe Paris had tried it once or twice, but she knew better now. He listened as the young driver continued to rant and shout at him in his native tongue.   
  
Alan raised an eyebrow at him and this just served to infuriate him all the more. Sebastian knew he was acting like a child. But he was disappointed, and all he wanted was to be left alone so he could lock himself away and cry about the unfairness of it all.   
  
His angered rant tapered off, and he slowly returned to English. Alan barely heard the last thing he said before he turned to walk away, head bowed.   
  
“What’s the point? I should just give up now.”   
  
His broken tone touched something deep inside Alan. “Don’t you dare say that!” he spat at the young German. “How dare you think you can just decide to give up? What about all those fans of yours? Do you have so little respect for them that you would take away their decision to support you?  _They_  believe you can win. And so should you!”   
  
“But…”   
  
“But nothing.   
  
“But…”   
  
Losing his temper at the audacity of this boy to question him, Alan grabbed the front of his overalls and shoved his slight frame hard against the wall. “Don’t be such a child. I won’t have my son disappointed by his hero, you hear me?!”   
  
Sebastian flushed with renewed anger. “So I’m a disappointment am I? Well screw you!” Using his considerable strength, he pushed Alan backwards. Alan growled, and sneered at him. “What, that’s the best you could come up with? ‘Screw you’? My 8 year old son could do better than that.”  
  
“I’m twenty fucking three! I‘m not a child!” Nothing riled him up more than someone reminding him how young he was. And it was always there, and always would be. He’d go down in the record books for being the youngest F1 driver to lead a race, the youngest to get pole  _and_  the youngest winner. His nickname was ‘Baby Schumi’ for fucks sake!   
  
“Then start acting like it! Grow a pair and man up! Stop blaming outside forces and  _take_ what you want!”   
  
Snarling, Sebastian grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and forced him back against the opposite wall. Pressing him against the wall, Sebastian shuddered as a wave of lust washed over him. He paused, breathing heavily.   
  
Reaching up to firmly remove Sebastian’s fists from his clothes, Alan was horrified to find his cock twitching at the proximity of the heat radiating from the lithe body holding him to the wall. His anger rose as he blamed Sebastian for putting him in this position. Hauling him back by the scruff of his neck, their eyes met. There was still anger in those pretty blue eyes. And  _hunger_. The little brat  _wanted_ him!   
  
What happened next was a blur. It would be hours later until Alan remembered how they’d flown at each other, fingers scrabbling at Velcro fastenings and leather belts. The determination to get to bare skin on skin almost overwhelming in its intensity.   
  
Sebastian wrestled his arms out of the tight sleeves of his overalls, even as Alan was trying to jerk them down past his hips. Logistically, this was a fucking nightmare. There was so many layers of fireproof material that Alan started to wonder if maybe  _this_  was something the sports organisers were trying to prevent, making it purposefully difficult to get down to bare skin in a moment of passion.   
  
Alan was jolted back to the situation at hand by Sebastian’s nimble fingers undoing his shirt buttons. His dark blue overalls were hanging loosely on his hips, just waiting for Alan to tug them the rest of the way down. He groaned at the sight of another Red Bull logo emblazoned on Sebastian’s chest, and leaned down to nip at his neck. “Isn’t there anywhere you aren’t branded? Slut. ”   
  
Sebastian’s outraged growl soon trailed off into a loud moan as Alan’s hot mouth descended on his neck. Alan pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Nobody had come down this corridor recently, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Alan shuddered slightly as Sebastian’s tongue traced over his palm, taking his finger between his thick, pouty lips and sucking on it, never looking away from Alan’s lust-blackened eyes. His hands had always been very sensitive.   
  
He tugged at the undershirt, swearing as it slipped between his fingers. “What the fuck is that made of?”   
  
“Hey don’t knock the Nomex. That stuff gives us 12 seconds of protection before second degree burns!”   
  
“Fuck second degree burns and get it off. Now.”   
  
Breathing heavily under the dark gaze, Sebastian reached down and untucked himself, pulling it swiftly over his head. Alan couldn’t help the low groan that escaped him at the sight of Sebastian’s naked chest. His smooth muscles rippling delightfully under his skin. He was more wiry then brawny with strong shoulders and a tapered waist.   
  
Frustrated by the break in action, Sebastian taunted him, “What’s the matter old man? Need a break already?”   
  
Grasping his hips hard enough to bruise, Alan spun him round to face a wall, dragging the overalls down his legs, as he attacked the back of Sebastian’s neck. There would be angry, purple marks there later, but neither of them cared in the slightest.   
  
Alan was greeted by more of the infuriatingly tight material. This stuff was worse than bloody lycra. He managed to slip a finger under the waistband and peeled them off Sebastian’s toned thighs. He pushed a knee roughly between his legs, using his ankle to work the shorts down to Sebastian’s ankles to give him more room.   
  
Chest heaving, Sebastian leaned his head against the wall and pushed his hips back insistently, arms braced against the cool concrete. A pleasant contrast to the unbearable heat of Alan’s skin touching his own.   
  
He cried out as Alan slid a saliva-slick finger into his entrance, but pushed back again, wanting more. Wasting no time, Alan introduced a second finger, sliding them in right to his knuckles, revelling in the angry hiss coming from Sebastian’s lips at the burn, and the pain, and the  _want_. He needed this. Needed to remember how it felt to shove his cock into a mans arse, the heat, the tightness. And he was infuriated that  _this_ man had drawn all those long-buried desires out of him.   
  
Losing patience, he removed his fingers from Sebastian’s stretched opening, spat into his hand, working it into his hard, throbbing, length and positioned himself. He waited barely a second before thrusting forward, burying himself to the hilt with one smooth movement. Sebastian sank his teeth into his forearm to stifle his scream, the force of the older mans thrusts pinning him to the wall, his cock trapped uncomfortably. He tried to reach down to adjust his position just as Alan made a particularly vicious movement with his hip.   
  
“Argh! Mein Gott… Mein Gott. Mehr! Bitte!”   
  
Alan grinned darkly, pounding into him even harder. The anger was still there, but it was quickly being submerged in the desperate need for release. Sebastian had his teeth buried in his wrist, but it was doing nothing to quieten the frantic whimpers and throaty groans escaping him. He could hear, and feel, Alan’s breath burning his neck. He quivered as his tongue snaked out to lick along the shell of his ear, stopping to bite roughly on his lobe.   
  
Sebastian could feel the familiar tightening in his balls, the tremor in his leg that always accompanied his orgasms. He was going to come without a single finger touching his cock, not even the lightest caress. And it was easily the most erotic fuck he’d ever had, Alan having incredible stamina for a man of his age, and a cock that effortlessly hit Sebastian’s every sweet spot with every thrust.   
  
This was more than Sebastian had ever allowed himself to fantasise about as a teenager. Alan Wilder, one of his  _idols,_ brutally fucking him in a dingy corridor after  _he_ had come to see  _Sebastian_ perform. It was unbelievable, incomprehensible and downright ridiculous in equal amounts.   
  
Groaning uncontrollably, Alan managed a further dozen strokes before succumbing to his climax. The searing heat of his come flooding his arse was enough to send Sebastian over the edge not seconds later, his come splattering the walls and his own chest.   
  
Alan slipped out of him as Sebastian collapsed against the wall, fighting for breath. He’d had a sudden flashback of the last time he’d come so hard, buried deep in a skinny, male body.  _Dave’s_  skinny, male body. He’d sworn it would never happen again. But of course, he’d known it would eventually. There was only so long one could deny themselves the ultimate pleasure in release. Alan couldn’t bring himself to regret what had just happened. Not with Sebastian. Something in those big, blue eyes called to him, and made him crave more.   
  
Pulling up his overalls, Sebastian turned to leave. Alan, still breathing hard, quickly replaced his clothes, not even sparing a glance to watch him go. He stopped at the end of the corridor, and without turning, simply said, “Danke.” before disappearing round the corner.   
  
Alan only looked after him when he knew he was already gone. Straightening his jacket, and wiping away the light sheen of sweat on his forehead, he returned to the garage, quietly thanking the woman for watching the boys. Stan hadn’t even noticed he he’d been gone.   
  
***   
  
At the rather subdued Red Bull party after the race, Alan and Sebastian kept their distance, though every now and again they would glance across the room and catch a pair of blue eyes watching them carefully.   
  
Considering how badly the race had gone for the team, with Seb crashing through no fault of his own, and Mark being given a 10 second stop-go penalty for causing said crash  _and_ jumping the start, Alan was surprised to see Christian making his way towards him with a small smug smile gracing his face. He handed Alan a drink.   
  
“Thank you for looking after Seb. He always needs to be kept occupied after a disappointing race.”   
  
Alan smirked slightly at Christian’s knowing gaze. “Anytime.”   
  
They exchanged a sly smile and turned to watch Sebastian talking with some other guests. He caught their eyes, and blushed, quickly turning away.   
  
Christian turned back to Alan, whos gaze never left the young German. “So. Will we be seeing you again?”   
  
“Oh yes. I think so.”   
 

**Author's Note:**

> To any Webber fans, I apologise if I was a little harsh; we've never been on good terms.


End file.
